Baked to Perfection
by Mei Hitokiri
Summary: Greg wants to bake a cake. Mycroft wants to eat the mixture.


**Baked to Perfection**

No matter how many diets Mycroft embarked upon, there was always one weakness in his plans. One way to melt his ice.

Cake.

Chocolate. Fruit. Sponge. Meringue. Roulade. Melt-in-the-middle.

Marzipan. Buttercream. Icing sugar. Roll-out. Glazed. Fruit. Cream. Jam. Syrup. Toffee.

He didn't care, so long as it was cake.

Now there was something rather fortunate about his current situation; Greg rather enjoyed cooking. He was also rather good at it.

Mycroft was sat in his armchair, reading, on a Saturday afternoon. Since Greg had moved in, Mycroft had – as far as possible – taken weekends off to spend more time with his partner. Greg leaned forward over the back of the chair and kissed Mycroft's cheek.

"I was going to bake this afternoon." He smiled as Mycroft arched a brow at him. "I was going to try out the new recipe I found on the internet." That got a reaction. Marking his page with a leather bookmark and setting it on the table, he followed his boyfriend into the kitchen. Greg turned on the TV screen and connected to the internet, bringing up the recipe from his favourites. Sat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, Mycroft watched as Greg pulled ingredients from the cupboards. "You know, you could help me out here." he called over his shoulder. It was said in jest, for the most part. Whilst he could happily eat the spoils, and was something of a gourmet chef when it came to savoury meals, Mycroft could burn a cake just by looking at it. "I was thinking of doing a Union Jack through the centre as the surprise design."

"Union Flag." Mycroft corrected. Greg stuck his tongue out at him.

The cake was made in segments; the red, white and blue sponge made separately, baked, and arranged into shape. Mycroft looked on hungrily as Greg baked, occasionally commenting on his awful singing. Greg was actually quite tuneful when he wanted to be, but he knew it annoyed his partner to no end when he sung Take That hits out of key and with his own lyrics. Finishing the white mixture, Greg set it to one side and began work on the blue. Sliding off his stool, Mycroft dipped a finger into the mixture and licked it clean. Greg pushed him away playfully.

"Oi! Stop eating my mixture!" Mycroft chuckled and grabbed a spoon off the worktop, taking up some on it and eating it.

"I'm checking it's not poisoned." It was with mock indignation that Greg swiped the bowl away.

"I can guarantee that it's not poisoned, Mr Holmes." Mycroft reached over his shoulder and scooped another spoonful into his mouth.

"I'm not sure. It tastes a little odd." Greg turned and placed his hands on Mycroft's chest, walking him backwards towards his seat.

"That's because it's uncooked. Now," he pushed Mycroft down onto the stool, "sit down and stop eating the mixture." Mycroft pulled a face but sat still, sucking the spoon clean with the most obscene noise possible. Greg rolled his eyes and carried on making the blue mixture. As he finished, his phone rang. Frowning, he washed his hands and went to retrieve it.

"I'm going to kill your brother!" Greg complained as he re-entered the kitchen. He looked up from where he'd been tucking his phone into his pocket. "No, scratch that. I'm going to kill both of you."

For his part, Mycroft looked like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and thus suitably guilty. The bowl of blue mixture was sat on his lap and the spoon fully loaded. Greg snatched it back with an irritated look. "I thought I told you to stop eating the mixture." Mycroft grinned, flashing a tongue dyed blue.

"You said stop eating _the_ mixture, which is a direct article and thus relates to a singular object. Therefore, you asked I stop eating the bowl of mixture I was eating at the time; which was white. You said nothing about the subsequent bowls of mixture; like this blue one I'm eating now." Greg's mouth bobbed open for a second as he tried to formulate a response.

"Whatever." was what he eventually settled for. He couldn't keep the hint of a smile off his face as he put the blue bowl back down.

He turned on the radio as he set up the final bowl, humming and singing along to the latest hits on Radio Two. As 'Call Me Maybe' opened up he fixed Mycroft with a cheeky grin.

"You know, this should be your song." Mycroft looked like Greg had suggested he text the Queen inappropriate messages in chav-style English.

"I beg your pardon?!" Greg laughed.

"I mean, you basically followed me for weeks after I started working with Sherlock, you gave me your number under the pretence of his protection and didn't leave me alone until I asked you out." He scooped his finger in the just-finished red mixture and offered it to Mycroft. The man leant forward and suckled it off happily.

"I still object to being compared to a teenage girl lusting after a blatantly homosexual male." Greg withdrew his finger and washed it.

"How is he blatantly… never mind. You do always seem to go after the apparently straight ones. I mean, I was married for eight years before you all but propositioned me." Mycroft scoffed.

"I'm just confident in myself, is all." Greg laughed heartily as he spooned each mixture into cake tins. Each one filled perfectly and Mycroft smiled smugly. Looking at the dirty utensils hopefully, Mycroft reached around and plucked the spoon. He set to work licking it clean as each tin was placed into the preheated oven. Greg rolled his eyes and handed over the spatula.

"Do you want to just lick it all clean? It'll save me the washing up." Mycroft swiped one of the mixing bowls and set to work on it. When he resurfaced there was red smeared on his nose. Greg laughed and swiped it off, then offered his finger.

"I'll lick it clean, but you're still having a shower."

It took Greg a moment to realise what Mycroft had said. He caught on quite quickly when Mycroft began to make good on his promise. The cake burned. Mycroft had fun as Greg tried again to make the cake.


End file.
